Let Her Go
by Baird's Girl 1997
Summary: (Previously titled "Sorrows of Tomorrow.") Taking place several years after the events of Gears of War 3, Damon Baird's life has changed dramatically. But when tragedy strikes, it's up to Delta to make sure that he lives to fight another day-even when the war has long since ended. (Rated M for language, possible violence, and possible sexual themes.)
1. Mad World

_**A/N Totally non-canon fic-lit on what becomes of Damon Baird and a few other main characters after the end of GoW 3! I'm really going to need your help on this one guys, as I'm not entirely sure where the deuce it's going myself. Song suggestions, names for future OC's, typo's...Any help is appreciated, and if I take a suggestion from you, you will be credited in bottom authors notes! Please please please tell me what you think of this, and I'll try to update as regularly as possible. :P Love you!**_

_**Also, a few disclaimers; I own absolutely nothing to do with the Gears of War universe, or the songs that I am referencing in every chapter. Each belong to their respective owners! **_

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><p><em><strong>And I find it kinda funny<strong>_

_**I find it kinda sad**_

_**The dreams in which I'm dying **_

_**Are the best I've ever had**_

_**I find it hard to tell you**_

_**I find it hard to take**_

_**When people run in circles it's a very very**_

_**Mad World**_

The sky above Hanover was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel, and spewing a slow but consistent drizzle of something that felt more like ice rather than rain to the few people who had been unfortunate enough to get caught in the middle of it. The streets and sidewalks had been flooded, turned into muddy puddles that made the simple act of walking down the block a chore, and the prospect of driving near impossible on some streets.

Occasionally, a stab or two of sunlight would break through the thick barrier of gray in the sky, but only just long enough to tease, reminding people that there is indeed such a thing as warm and comforting and pretty as the sun before retreating back into its hiding place.

Gloomy. Quiet. Overcast. It was just was of those days; too wet to have fun, too dark to be outside, too cold to thaw. And it had been like that all day, every day, for about two weeks now, black and dreary, the beads of water that poured out from the drawn gray clouds just under their freezing point, making the prospect of snow distant and the overall end to the gloom impossible.

Damon Baird, situated on an uncomfortable barstool in a crowded bar next to a fogged up window, had full view of the sullen atmosphere outside, and he watched dumbly as the rain pattered against the glass, his forehead resting on its icy surface. When a particularly strong gust of wind blew through the streets, an excess of water would drip off the branches of newly-planted trees, and the tapping against the window would grow stronger—like the buzzing of irate bees—before falling back into its hypnotic rhythm.

He couldn't quite remember when he had gotten here, or if he was supposed to leave soon. But these days, time had little consequence anyway, which left him content to sit in the bar, drink when given something to drink, and bide his time in a warm, indifferent, if not lonely haze which was only broken when another brimming glass of who-the-hell-cares-what was slammed in front of him.

After all, he mused silently, it beat staying at home, where the silence was physically painful, and thick enough to be painted on the walls. Looking back, he realized that being at home was in fact _the _worst place to be at this present time in his life, because, when he was alone, he did weird things. Like sit on the bathroom floor and cry for absolutely no reason at all. He would try to sleep on the couch or on the floor, because he couldn't bare going into the bedroom, and then realize he can't even sleep at all, because he's scared of seeing her in his dreams. And, most often, he would put guns in his mouth, or under his chin, and contemplate pulling the trigger _just_ to break the silence of the _fucking _house.

The pitter-patter of the rain and his clouded thoughts were broken by the slam of a full shot glass on the bar top, and Baird swiveled his chair slightly to the right just in time to see the guy behind the counter walk away, filling up empty cups as he made his way down to the other end of the small bar. Another woman had just arrived, and her bright eyes and damp hair hinted that she was just out of the rain, and sober enough to understand what she was getting herself into.

Without much interest, and the realization that there was nothing else in the bar to be interested in, Baird studied her, analyzing her movements and gestures with that kind of devoted attention to miniscule details that people receive after excessive amounts of alcohol.

Ten minutes passed, and within those ten minutes, Baird had gulped down four more glasses of that auburn shit, _and_ came to the conclusion that the lady he was watching was most likely a prostitute; in the short amount of time she had been in the bar, she had approached almost every man that looked capable enough of speech, never with a friendly handshake or hello, but with a full-on display of her "assets" accompanied by a sexy smile or a wink.

Baird's thoughts roamed after that, thinking of one thing here, another there, but basically focusing on one topic. It was the same thing that had been in his head for about two weeks now. It was also the same thing that had him considering death over life.

"Hi-ya." The sultry voice that floated over to Baird sounded like nothing more then an echo, clawing its way over the pounding music and loud voices that were flooding the small bar.

"Earth to Blondie," the voice called again after a moment, sounding a little louder and clearer. "You alright, guy?"

Fighting the alcohol induced fuzziness, Baird blinked the blurriness away, and then turned his head to the right to find a young woman sitting cross-kneed on the stool next to his, her almost black eyes bright and aware, a toothy grin spread across her face. It was the same woman who he had seen walk in.

"Ah, so you are alive," she had to shout to be heard above the noise, which was becoming increasingly louder as more and more people came stumbling in. Baird shot her a skeptical look, leaning his elbow on the counter and the side of his head in his palm.

"I'm going to stop you right there, hun," he shouted back, retaining his indifferent expression. "I'm not interested in buying whatever it is you're trying to sell."

"Hey, who said I'm _selling_ anything," she countered quickly, still flashing that confidant smile, sliding a little closer in her seat.

Baird scoffed. "Well, then _I_ would say, "spoken like a true whore." He rolled his glazy blue eyes, turning back to his drink. He fingered the small shot glass, turning it back and fourth on the bar top while watching ripples break the auburn surface of the liquid. Still feeling the burn in the back of his throat from the last one, he busied himself by trying to remember how many shots he'd had in the past half hour; he'd lost count at 12.

"I'm Niki." Daunted by her insistence, Baird turned again, looking the woman over this time; she was short, maybe 5 3" with a diminutive build to match. Her hair was bleached blonde, with natural brunette growing back at the roots, and cropped short, just under her thrice-pierced ears, which were adorned with black hoops and two studs in each. With high cheekbones and a pronounced jaw, she wasn't overly pretty, but enough to grab the attention of potential "costumers."

She blinked expectantly at him, the humidity in the crowded room making the dark charcoal around her eyes smudge. "You got a name, sweetie?" she cooed, resting an elbow on the bar, burying a delicate-looking hand into her hair and leaning forward, letting the flimsy blue tank top she was wearing hang low.

This time, Baird let out one short laugh, yelling back over the music, "Yeah; it's pronounced fuck off," before turning back to his drink. He knocked it back; eyes fluttering in satisfaction—yeah, that was good—as all the haziness that had cleared up from their short conversation came seeping back into his head, numbing his senses.

"Well, you're a little anti-social, aren't you?" This time, her voice came from behind, and before Baird could turn, a pair of arms was draped over his shoulders, and he felt her body press against his back. "Lucky for you," she whispered in his ear, lips brushing skin, "I like a man who plays hard to get."

Baird rolled his shoulders back, forcing her to stand to full height before swiveling the barstool to face her. "Listen up sister," he said, voice raised. He tried to ignore the skimpier entities of her getup that he hadn't noticed earlier; specifically the cutoff denim skirt that donned her hips. _Only _her hips.

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret here," he continued, centering his full attention on trying not to slur his words; his tongue felt unimaginably heavy as he flashed her a smile. "I've got nothing for you."

"Oh, I _seriously _doubt that," she shot back with a chuckle, not making eye contact while ruffling her hair, once again letting her blouse hang low, breasts on full display like they were everyone's business. But then…in her profession, they probably _were _everyone's business…

Before Baird's sluggish brain could generate a reply, one that would rid of her for good, Nicole took a step forward, the sharp _clack _of her high heel just barely surfacing above the music. And then, without hesitation, she slid onto his lap, straddling him as her hands traveled up his neck, their faces only a few inches apart.

Instinct told Baird to get up, brush her off; do anything to get her away. But then…there was something so familiar about the feeling, so natural and normal and comforting, that he remained silent. Stared into her eyes. He wanted to drown in their black depths. A chill ran down his spine as she slowly leaned into him, their lips just brushing before she changed direction and started kissing his neck.

Numbly, Baird let his eyes close, and before he knew it, the sounds of the bar had faded away, and all he could make out was a constant, droning buzz in his ears. The alcohol made forgetting where he was too easy, and pretty soon, he wasn't in the bar at all, but home. And the woman on his lap, covering him in affection, wasn't just some slut from the streets, but someone else. Someone he cared extensively for; someone he had loved with his whole heart and soul. Someone who was gone forever.

Half a minute passed, and Baird was content to let her lead, moisture lingering wherever her soft tongue glided over his skin. Like in a daze, he maneuvered his body whichever way she wanted, letting her peck the side of his neck and beneath his sandpaper chin, all the while his own hands finding their way under her shirt, exploring on their own. Detached from the rest of him.

A soft moan escaped her lips as he finally lunged forward, his teeth gently biting down on her earlobe, avoiding the jewelry that christened it with unknown expertise. Lost in a different place and time, he traveled down her neck, across her shoulders, lingering on areas that left a spark on his tongue and electricity buzzing through his lips. Her perfume was heavy on her pale skin, engulfing his senses as he traveled further, something between jasmine and roses, overwhelming but addictive.

Her hands grazed through his two-toned blonde hair with unmistakable force just as his lips met the neckline of her blouse, and his blue eyes drifted open as she brought his head back up to face hers.

She flashed him a quick smile, one that looked to be more about satisfaction rather then happiness, and then pressed her lips against the mechanic's—hesitation absent as the moment she had been leading up to finally presented itself.

In that instant when their lips locked, Baird's whole image of home, and safety, and happiness—all of it—crumbled into a million pieces, tore at the seams, shattered like glass struck with a rock. It broke, in all possible ways you can think of. With devastation, he came to the sobering conclusion that it was Nicole's lips he was kissing, and it was all wrong; she went from having a touch like satin, to something like skin being scraped off with a blunt spoon. She tasted like cigarettes and alcohol, and not the delicate sweetness he was expecting. He had anticipated perfection, and in return, he had received anything but.

As if he had been jolted with electricity, Baird stood, hands braced on the bar behind him. His heart was beating in what felt like an attempt to break out of his chest.

Nicole, in turn, stumbled backward, losing her balance on account of the high-heeled shoes, and fell flat on her ass. On her way down, she bumped someone who had been holding a painfully full mug of beer. The liquid came raining down on her bleached hair, dribbling across her livid face in partly foamy, gold streaks, and soaked through her blouse until what little it was covering became completely visible.

The entire building had fallen silent throughout the whole scene, (save for the ever-present thrash-metal,) but now, it erupted into drunken fits of laughter. Until the woman on the floor spoke.

"What the fuck is your problem?!" Previously, Nicole's voice had been soft. Cajoling. Something you could find sex-appeal or intimacy in. At the present moment, it sounded more like she was being crushed by a Centaur.

She held the dripping mess of a shirt away from her breasts with two fingers and a wrinkled brow, trying and failing to preserve at least some of the dignity she _thought_ she had left.

Baird didn't stick around to answer. His heart was in his throat, and it was pounding to the point of choking him. He was dizzy and nauseas and sick with guilt. He was oblivious to the rage-filled screams that followed him to the bathroom door. He entered, closed it behind him, and stumbled with shaky legs over to the sinks.

Letting a slow stream of water trickle into his trembling hands, Baird leaned against the counter, not confident enough in his own two legs to count on standing. As soon as his hands were overflowing, he splashed them against his face, letting the soft whimpers that were starting to build in his throat die as suddenly as the icy liquid cleared his head. He repeated the action, a second, third, fourth time, until the shaking that had seized his body subsided into soft tremors.

Clutching the sides of the sink, he stared into the drain with glazy blue eyes, thoughts racing so that the thumping music and clamoring voices outside the door seemed to amplify, burning through his skull and embedding themselves into his thoughts as his vision swayed in and out of focus.

The sudden smack to his jaw came so suddenly that he toppled to the tiled bathroom floor more out of surprise then pain, although that was an understatement, because the whole left side of his face already felt like it had been jabbed with the butt of a sawed-off.

"The…fuck," was all he could manage, eyes squelched shut, one hand shooting up to his jaw while the other supported his weight on the floor.

There was no answer, only two massive hands gripping the collar of his shirt, hoisting him to full height and slamming him against the wall adjacent the sink.

"You mind telling me what went down out there, asshole?" The voice that echoed through the small tiled room was a low, deep growl, no-nonsense evident in his tone. All broken glass and whiskey.

Baird blinked his eyes tighter before summoning the strength to open them, all the while his feet scrabbling for the floor as the man in front kept him pinned to the wall. Stabbing white pain pierced his eyes as he opened them, but he fought against the discomfort, instead focusing his attention on the figure in front of him; he was an intimidating presents to say the least, standing about 6 3' on his own, 6 4' with the assistance of his mud crusted work boots. His gleaming green eyes bore into Baird's while his jawline remained set in an intimidating half-smile. Three of his back teeth were silver.

"You lost your tongue, pig? I asked you a question." Again, with that deep voice. It had a southern twang to it, but his accent was undermined by the overall tone, which sounded akin to far off thunder, just waiting for the storm to break.

"What's it to you?" Baird managed in a choked-backed voice, both his hands feverishly working to unclasp the man's one, which was still wrapped tightly around the blonde's throat.

"What's it to me…" The guy let his voice trail off, and nodded his head slightly before grabbing a handful of Baird's hair and throwing him against a bathroom stall. The shabby door swung in on its hinges, and Baird lurched inside, gasping for air while the man sauntered slowly over.

"Let me put it to you differently boy, seeing as how you're not fully understanding." He squatted down next to the smaller man, grabbing him roughly by the jaw and turning his head so that they were eye-to-eye.

"That girl out there, Nikki," he started up again. "She's mine. Period. And I don't like other people tampering with my property. Now, do you have any explanation as to why she came bitching to me that you were giving her trouble?"

Baird barely comprehended what was being said, his ears ringing so loudly that the man's mouth seemed to be moving without words. Vaguely, he heard the name Nikki mentioned, but stayed silent under his attacker's questioning glare.

There were a few seconds of silence, albeit the noise outside the door, and then the big man sighed irritably, grabbing Baird by the wrist and dragging him back out of the stall. Baird struggled, kicking at the guy's shins and using his right hand in an attempt to free his left, but the other man's fingers were like concrete, set like a vice.

Turning, he launched his big booted foot at Baird, and it caught him on the cheek, making white and red lights bleed down the blonde's line of sight. He gasped for air and attempted to get back on his hands and knees, but not before another blow smashed into his ribs, sending him back down on the cold tile.

"You want to tell me what happened with you and Nikki yet?"

Coughing and gasping, he tasted blood. He stayed curled up defensively, watching through hazy vision as drips of red from his mouth stained the off-white tile. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking; from the pain and fear and the alcohol. Now, he realized, would be the appropriate time to give up; to apologize, or whatever the hell it was that this douche wanted.

But then…what the fuck did he have to lose anymore?

"What do you think I did asshole? I called her out on the slut that she was."

With the last word dead on his lips, the pain started again; the man's fist like two slabs of steel landing blows on Baird's cheeks, jaw, stomach, ribs, chest. Time was quickly lost track of, but before what felt like long, things started to fade for the blonde; vision and feeling, evaporating slowly and without consequence.

Vaguely, Baird was aware of blood, spattered across the tiled floors in alarmingly extensive puddles, but he didn't care enough to feel concern. In fact, he didn't care enough to fight back, or even try to protect himself from the crushing blows the man was instilling on his body. He was numb. Empty. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice was telling him that he deserved all this. He believed it.

He was coughing, gagging on a mouthful of blood, when the violent attack suddenly ceased. From where he was on the floor, the mechanic barely had the strength to get his eyes open, and even when he did, everything was a blur, shapes and colors indistinguishable amidst the gray, faded fog. Two additional figures, their faces completely unrecognizable, were in the bathroom; two men; one looming over his prone form with a stance that screamed genuine concern, while the other kept his attacker pinned against the far wall. Voices were exchanged, but not nearly loud enough to rise above the incessant ringing in Baird's ears.

Fading. Everything was fading. Someone was kneeling next to him, turning him gently on his side so that he wouldn't choke. A hand, gripped on his shoulder, not painfully, but so tight that the blonde could tell that whoever was administering the contact was afraid of letting go. It was a familiar touch. This whole situation was all too familiar.

"D-don't…" The word barely formed, slipping from Baird's lips and falling to the bloodied tile floors at dead weight. There was something he wanted to say, but the rest of the sentence—whatever it might be—was lost with Baird as both fell under the deep, crushing blanket of unconsciousness.


	2. Fix You

_**And the tears come streaming down you face**_

_**When you lose something you can't replace**_

_**When you love someone and it goes to waste**_

_**Could it be worse?**_

Marcus Fenix was a master at concealing his emotions. In rage, or bitter sadness, or even joy, the man barely ever broke his stone-cold expression of indifference. So it was a widely understood fact that, if the former sergeant of Delta Squad ever did give up his apathetic scowl in replacement for any other emotion at all, something must be terribly wrong.

In his apartment, at his kitchen table, Marcus was frowning. Something _was _terribly wrong, and that something was laying—had been laying for the past eighteen hours—comatose, on the couch in the living room.

"_What am I going to do with him?" _was the one and only thought that had been zipping through his head, ever since he and Dominic Santiago had found Baird in that bar, as close to dead as they've ever seen him, all those eighteen hours ago. There was actual trepidation in the sergeants icy eyes as he thought about it; just what would have happened to the blonde, had not the owner of the joint called up authorities, complaining about a ruckus that was getting too extreme, even for his side of town?

What would've happened if Marcus and Dom had just shrugged off the call as another typical bar scene? It wasn't like they hadn't come close enough as it was; he couldn't get the image of that small bathroom out of his head, with all the blood slicked across the floor and the fact that Baird wasn't even _trying_ to put up a fight.

_Well, would you be able to fight back, after a beating like that?_ That was rationality speaking, and more then anything, Marcus wanted to agree with it. But he knew it wasn't true. Up until two weeks ago, Damon Baird was the type of guy who'd go down fighting, as apposed to simply rolling over and giving up. But that's exactly what he'd done last night; both Marcus and Dom had seen the resignation in their barely conscious friend; it made the blue-eyed soldier sick with fear. And it hadn't been the first time they had found him in such a compromising situation.

Taking one last swig of his coffee, Marcus placed the empty mug in the sink before stepping quietly into the living room. It was a quarter-after one in the afternoon, and he had been checking on Baird every fifteen minutes since they had brought him home; suffice to say, he had gotten very little sleep.

When he caught sight of the other man on the couch, he slumped a little, like he had every other time he checked on him; it was all Dom and he could do to stop the bleeding last night, so they hadn't really bothered with administering ice to the larger of the bruises that covered Baird's face and bare upper-body. Looking at the blue and purple splotches now—dispersed indiscriminately and roughly the size of a fist—Marcus wished they had.

The blanket they had covered the blonde with had once again slipped down to the floor, (Baird had been restless all night; slurred, one-way conversations accompanied by jerky movements making evident the fact that he was suffering from nightmares,) so Marcus draped it over him again, and then gently pressed two fingers against his wrist. The pulse was still fainter then the older man would've liked, but it was normal, much more even then it had been last night.

Marcus sighed audibly, walking with loose shoulders over to the armchair in the corner of the room. He figured it would still be a few hours until Baird came around, and in that time, he closed his weary eyes.

"_What am I going to do with him?"_

It was, in fact, three and a half more hours before a weak cough roused the sergeant, and, once the sound registered, he opened his eyes as easily as if he _hadn't _just been sleeping.

"Baird," he grunted, pushing himself out of the old chair while trying to ignore the stiffness that came with sleeping upright. He walked over to the couch, and stiffened up a little when he realized that the younger man was in fact still asleep; he was whimpering though, and his eyes were roaming wildly behind closed lids. The blanket had fallen again, shoved off of Baird as he seized in his sleep.

Marcus squatted down next to him, keeping balanced with one hand gripped on the arm-rest. "Baird," he said again, and his voice was softer for the second attempt. He wasn't trying to wake him, but only hoped that in some way, he could ward off whatever it was that was causing the blonde so much discomfort.

He was met with no reply at first, but after a few more seconds of indiscernible mumbling, violent twitching, Marcus finally caught a word that he understood.

"No…" It was a broken, soft whimper to begin with, but when repeated, "N-no, don't…" Baird's voice grew louder, and choked with built-up sobs.

"Baird," Marcus, in turn, elevated his voice, but refrained from touching the blonde; he knew well enough not to interfere physically with a rem cycle, especially when dealing with a trained soldier; the after-effect usually ended up with someone getting hurt.

"No…s-stop…" Harsh, erratic breathing; he was crying in his sleep. Marcus hovered a hand over his shoulder, unsure.

"Baird."

"Stop it!" The blonde unconsciously backed himself further into the couch, hands weakly grabbing fistfuls of the loose fabric cover. Marcus clenched his jaw, and then gently but firmly grabbed Baird's shoulder with one hand, and used the other to keep his from striking out.

"Damon, easy." Gentleness wasn't a tone that was typical of Marcus Fenix, but it somehow suited his gruff voice; like mild ocean waves, it retained a certain force, but was soothing all the same. "Wake up; you're just dreaming."

He shook him, ever so lightly, and at that instant Baird's eyes opened. Even in wakefulness, his breathing was panicked, and he was looking everywhere except at Marcus, who was still knelt in front of him.

"Damon, look at me." He moved his hand from Baird's shoulder to the side of his head. At his gentle touch, Baird's bloodshot eyes found the sergeant's face, and immediately, some—but not all—of the fear left their blue green depths. It was replaced by pained knowing.

"Marcus." It wasn't a hazy question, but a dry, sick sounding acknowledgment of the other gear.

The dark haired man nodded at him, and stood back up, giving him one last pat on the arm. _It's ok, _it seemed to say.

Baird's attempt at sitting up wasn't so easily achieved, and when Marcus saw his struggling, he helped him into a sitting position, as gingerly as he could. A groan, broken through an obvious attempt at concealment, passed the blondes lips all the same.

With his bare feet on the floor, Baird breathed deeply, trying to find the best way to support his back. It was an impossible task, because every single part of his body was set with excruciating pain. He felt dizzy, and hot and cold at once. His head was pounding. He was pretty sure that in the next half hour or so, he was going to be puking his guts up.

Tears were still running down his bruised face, and when he lethargically realized so, he brought a hand up to wipe them away. The contact was agony, but he swiped at them anyway.

"You were dreaming," Marcus was the first to break the silence, and when he did, his sentence sounded more like an observation then fact. Those annoying mannerisms of his that never seemed to change.

Baird nodded back, sniffling. The images from the nightmare were still fresh in his mind, and they hurt more then the bruises that covered his body. Fresh tears filled his eyes at the recollection, and he tried to blink them away.

Marcus left the living room wordlessly, and was back two minutes later with a full glass of water. Baird had moved over to one side of the couch, so Marcus sat down next to him. He offered the water.

Baird was thirsty, but his throat was still so constricted and sore that he shook his head. "Marcus, I—"

"You're dehydrated, Baird." Technically, Marcus didn't tell him to do anything, but his even, low tone suggested otherwise. Baird took the glass, and sipped it.

A rattling sound next to him caused the blonde to turn, but he quickly regretted the action; Marcus had a small orange bottle in his hands, and he was looking at the contents disapprovingly.

"Where'd you get those?" Baird still didn't recognize his own voice for how harsh it was, but he was trying for something like indigence. The glass of water felt unsteady between his two sweat-licked hands.

"They were on you." Marcus looked up. _Water,_ his eyes spoke for him, and Baird instinctively took another sip.

"You're not taking them," he added, tapping the pill bottle once before setting it down on the coffee table in front of both of them. It stared back at Baird, and he frowned. He cleared his throat. He changed the topic.

"Where's Dom?" He bent forward painfully, placing the water next to the pills. It's clear surface rippled.

Marcus squinted slightly, a look that read: _What you're trying to do? It's not going to work. But I'll play along. _"The office," he grunted after a pause, also leaning backward. He made the word _office _sound like it tasted bad, in that subtle way of his. "One of us had to explain why we never came back to work last night."

Awkward silence. Both men could literally hear the old clock ticking on the wall, and it was times like these that they missed the rattle of gunfire, or the deep, throaty rev of a chainsaw bayonet. Death and destruction was second nature. Respite was foreign.

"You, um…" Baird cleared his throat again. "You could've just taken me home." Stupid reply, really, but what else could he say? He gave Marcus an awkward look out of the corner of his eye. "I would've been ok."

"Sure Baird. Because you looked so ok when Dom and I found you, right?" A slight twinge of frustration creased the former sergeant's scarred face, synced with his low, husky voice. He looked over at Baird, gauged his reaction, and soon realized he had said the wrong thing. He took in a breath. Let it out.

"You might've had a concussion," he explained in a lower tone. More even and natural. "We didn't want to take that chance.

Baird swallowed thickly. Nodded. There were so many unasked questions that, in a way, they were already answerable. Marcus avoided the harder ones.

"You want to try to get up?" He gestured with a slight tilt of the head over to the bathroom. "Go get cleaned up?"

The last thing Baird wanted to do was try and stand; he knew from experience that, on days like these, standing led to puking, and everything else just went downhill from there. But he nodded anyway. He knew that the time was somewhere in the afternoon, and he had to get to the hospital before visiting hours closed. He just _had _to.


	3. My Immortal

**A/N: Thanks for all the views so far! I'm definitely trying to keep this one going. Try to review if you read and/or fav, so that I'll know what kinds of changes to make in the future! Thanks!**

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><p><em><strong>And if you have to leave<strong>_

_**I wish you would just leave**_

_**Your presence still lingers here**_

_**And it won't leave me alone**_

Getting ready had been…interesting, to say the least. After the initial hangover symptoms had died down to a manageable level—i.e, being able to actually stand without throwing up—Baird had stumbled into the shower, nearly lost his balance twice, and then tried to maneuver his bruised body into some of Dom's clothes. Slowly. Painfully. The tee shirt was a tad too big, but it worked.

When afterward, Baird told Marcus that he wanted to go to the hospital, Marcus was skeptical; the blonde was barely able to walk on his own, and the sergeant felt he would accomplish more by staying home, and relaxing.

But Baird was insistent. "I'll drive myself," he had stated, gingerly pressing down a final bandage on the bridge of his nose. Marcus scowled, and grabbed the keys.

The drive there had been silent, and Marcus actually found himself missing the inane ramblings that used to spew from his friend's lips in seemingly uncontrollable bursts. There were no sarcastic remarks during the drive. No smart-assery. Just silence, only broken by the _pitter-patter_ of rain, and the wet squeak of windshield wipers as they glided across the glass.

Marcus wondered what could be going through Baird's head at times like those. Pained silence, where the hurt and guilt in the mechanic's distant eyes was obvious.

_What would _I_ be thinking, if the same thing had happened to me two weeks ago?_

That question, Marcus Fenix realized, was unanswerable, and he didn't think that he would ever truly be able to understand what Baird was going through, unless he experienced it himself.

God forbid.

New Jacinto Memorial Hospital was the picture of distress when Marcus and Baird arrived fifteen minutes later. The clamoring voices of dozens of people seemed to merge into one mumbled conversation, never simplified enough for you to be able to understand it, but as loud and obnoxious as ever.

Both men walked briskly into the lobby, already dampened by the persistent drizzle of rain that had yet to cease.

Wary glances were occasionally cast their way, although it was obvious that they were settling on Baird; but then…who wouldn't stare at injuries like those? The younger man had tried to ignore them when he was getting dressed; the harsh purple splotches and angry breaks in his skin. But no matter how much he tried to pretend that they weren't there, people were staring, and one thing was obvious.

He looked like absolute shit.

Baird shivered a little, ignoring the discreet looks being cast his way while wrapping himself tighter into his black hoodie. The coat had been in his car, which had been waiting for the blonde down in the apartment's parking lot. Marcus didn't say as much, but Dom must've driven it there last night.

He looked around nonchalantly, hands pocketed in the jacket. This place—the same walls and floors and faces—were becoming all too familiar for his liking, and he just wanted to move on with his life already; to be able to see a doctor or nurse without cringing, or actually walk into a hospital without feeling like he was going to be sick.

Two weeks ago, he had rushed into this building in a panic; confused and terrified and hopeful all at once. He had sat in one of the lobby's plastic blue chairs, and waited for hours on end. He had been brought into an office, and had his heart broken. Shattered. Crushed.

Taken out of his chest entirely.

Now, there was only one thing in this building that permitted these visits at all; one very small, barely there thing that was all he had left. He had been coming every day since those two weeks ago, desperately fighting for the one thing that was separating heartbreak from hope, and death from life.

"Baird." Marcus's voice was low, but somehow, the blonde still managed to catch it under the vast array of other people's chatter.

The sergeant was standing taller at his side, a skeptical look shadowing his icy blue eyes as he glanced at Baird. "You ok?" he asked, not for the first time that day. He was worried, and vaguely, Baird wondered if he looked as horrible as he felt.

"M'fine," the younger man lied. He wasn't fine. If it weren't for the one thing he was coming to see right now in the first place, he probably would have broken down already; shown everyone just how _not _fine he was.

Marcus eyed him warily. They walked down the hall together, but as they neared the elevator, he spoke up.

"Dom's going to meet us here, alright?" Again, with that appeasing, _you can have whatever you want _tone.

He didn't say as much, but Baird felt crazy, or unstable, when Fenix talked like that. He wrung his hands together irritably. Nodded.

_He wasn't crazy. He wasn't._

"Ok." He wasn't looking at Marcus at all; he was looking at doctors, and nurses, and IV poles. Medication bottles that reminded him of his own. Crisp white floors that looked suitable enough to eat off of, and shiny white walls to match. So much white that it hurt.

"Damon." Marcus looked at the younger man as they waited for the elevator. He was somewhere far away, the blue-eyed sergeant could tell, and continuously losing whatever grip he had on the situation. His hands were wringing anxiously, and the purple bruises on his face looked even darker for how pale his skin was.

The elevator _dinged_, and after the initial deportees cleared out of the small box, Marcus stepped inside, and Baird followed, feeling irked at the placating way the other man was speaking to him.

He pressed a button; one with four little letters on it. It lit up, and then the car started moving, a lot more slowly then they used to before the war.

"Baird," Marcus tried again, but that time, the blonde looked at him. There was irritation in his pallid face, and he stared hard at Marcus.

"For god's sake, Fenix just stop, alright?" His voice was more raised then he would've liked, but at that moment, he couldn't help himself. He removed his hands from his pockets, and rested them on his hips, setting his jaw and angling his face towards the ceiling. Marcus blinked, slow and purposefully.

"I know what you're thinking, Marcus; I'm not stupid."

"No one said you're stupid." His voice was so hushed that Baird grimaced at it. Marcus was tip-towing again, making obvious what it was he was thinking about. Baird was thinking about the same thing.

"You think I'm going to loose it again, don't you?" There was silence after his low voice. Marcus stared. Baird laughed humorlessly. "You think that if there's bad news waiting for me up there, I'm going to do something…what? Violent? Crazy?"

Marcus remained silent, which was an answer in itself: Yes.

The elevator was spinning as it approached the pre-appointed floor. Baird heard his pulse pounding through his ears as he laced his hands behind his head. Felt shaky and unexplainably mad as he turned away from Marcus. Distantly, he remembered what had been written about him on a filing chart a week and a half ago, but was too upset to care.

_Mood swings. Self-harmful tendencies. Insomnia. All categorized by Post Traumatic Stress disorder. Counteractive medication strongly advised._

At that moment, more then anything else, Baird wanted to slide down to the floor and cry until he couldn't cry anymore. To go to sleep for years and years and years and just forget the world. He wanted everything to stop mattering, or for it all to matter again. He was stuck somewhere helplessly in between wanting to care, and not giving a shit.

He wanted to die.

But he couldn't. Something kept him standing, back turned to Marcus, feet planted firmly. A little something that was waiting on the 23rd floor of the hospital.

Baird rubbed his face, and then left them covering his eyes when the friction on his bruised skin became too painful. A hand was on his shoulder, but with the sudden bout of anger already dissipating, the blonde didn't even have the energy to nudge it off. He sighed a little, and it came out sounding more like a despairing moan through his hands.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted a second later. His arms dropped to his sides. His voice was a hopeless whisper, any semblance of strength devoid from it. "What the _hell _am I going to do?"

"You're going to get through this," Marcus replied, gripping his friend's arm a little tighter.

Baird couldn't find any reason to believe him, but remained silent. His shoulders were slack with resignation. He was empty. Hollow.

"You're going to keep fighting, Baird, and things will get better."

Baird turned, angling his back into the corner of the elevator. He stared at Marcus, silently, but his eyes—dull and lifeless—seemed to be asking why. Why should he have to keep fighting a losing battle? Why should he have to keep trying so hard?

The blonde shrugged a little with half-lidded eyes, and at that moment, Delta's former sergeant realized just how exhausted he looked.

"Why should I, Marcus?" There was no sarcasm or malice in Baird's question; just plain and simple desperation. _Give me an answer, _it seemed to beg, _because if I don't find one soon, I don't think I'll make it any farther._

"Because." Marcus chose his words carefully, but at the same time, spoke them with complete sincerity. "That's what Samantha would've wanted you to do—"

The elevator _dinged _again, and the doors slid open to reveal a pleasantly painted floor; bright colors—yellows, pinks, and blues—engulfed the walls and furniture. Above the front desk, a sign suspended by neon green rope read: _Welcome to the NICU._

"—and that's what your son needs from you now."

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><p><strong>AN: Now we're getting somewhere! Yes, everything will be explained soon, but in the meantime, keep reading! (And for those of you who don't know, NICU stands for Neonatal Intensive Care Unit…:O)**


	4. Storm

**A/N: Yay, an update! Yes, I know this is not the most interesting chapter in the world, and that these chapters just keep getting shorter and shorter, but I'm trying, and it is necessary, so just bear with me. ;) Enjoy, R&R, tell me what you think, and I will keep working! :D**

**Song: Storm, by Lifehouse.**

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><p><em><strong>If I could just see you<strong>_

_**Everything would be alright**_

_**If I'd see you**_

_**This darkness would turn to light.**_

Marcus watched as Baird got off the elevator and walked up to the front desk, and then he pressed the button for the lobby. He knew that Baird wouldn't appreciate him following any further, and respected that; some things were just too personal, even between the closest of friends.

The shiny metal doors slid shut, and the former sergeant sighed heavily as the box car began it's decent. Everything still seemed unreal, even two weeks after everything had happened; it didn't' feel at all like Sam was gone, or that Damon Baird was a father. It felt wrong how everything had shifted in the blink of an eye.

After a minute, the elevator dinged, and then opened up again. Marcus was met with a small crowd of people waiting to get on, their faces a contrasted mixture of happiness, worry, anticipation. Judging from the looks in each of their eyes, it was simple enough to guess which floor they were heading to; the older man, with a smile that seemed too wide for his aged face, was going to see his new grandkid in the nursery. The young brunette, a handkerchief clamped to her nose in an attempt to stop from crying, was heading to the intensive care unit. The young boy, no more then seventeen, wringing his hands anxiously with a nervous grin, was going to the maternity floor to meet his pregnant girlfriend for her first ultrasound.

So many different feelings encompassed a hospital, that sometimes it seemed like the happy floors should be separated by miles and miles from the sad ones; that way, Marcus thought as he pushed his way through the mess of bodies, the happy people wouldn't have to feel sorry when they saw the sad ones, and the sad people wouldn't get jealous over the happy people. Things would be easier.

But then…where would that leave a man who had just lost his wife, and became a father all at once?

"Marcus!" Dom's voice interrupted the sergeant's thoughts, and he looked around the crowded lobby until his eyes met those of his oldest friend.

"I got your note," the other man continued as they approached each other, referring to the small scribble of paper Marcus had left in the apartment before he and Baird had left. "How is he?" he added, concern etching into his chocolate brown eyes.

"Off the medication. Again." Marcus had a way of keeping his voice low and still managed to be heard, kind of like the distant thunder that was currently rumbling outside the hospital walls.

Dom folded his arms over his chest, shifting his weight to his other foot. He could've predicted that answer, but it still didn't get any easier to listen to. He wondered absently why Baird wasn't using the numbing pills, but then remembered how he himself had been encouraged to take medication after everything with Maria. Looking back, it just didn't seem right to be trying to forget about the person you loved. He couldn't blame Baird for feeling the same way.

"What happened with Grant?" Marcus's gruff voice broke Dom out of his thoughts, and the Latino rolled his eyes and shook his head at the mention of their boss.

"What's there to say?" he responded, raising his muscular shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. "Compton Grant is a complete asshole, and there's not much you or me can do about it. Needless to say he didn't take too kindly about the two of us skipping out last night, but whatever. You look like shit, by the way."

"Thanks," Marcus responded dryly, not bothering to pursue the subject. Both men fell silent, wandering to a quieter corner of the lobby as they waited for Baird, and settling down into some old chairs. After a few minutes, Marcus noticed a distant look in Dom's eyes, and he nudged him with his elbow.

"You ok?"

Dom glanced at him, and smiled sadly. "I miss her, Marcus." He sighed, and rubbed his face. "I miss her so much."

"I know," Marcus responded after a second. Although his answer was simple, Dom understood what he really meant to say.

_I miss her too._

Fifteen minutes later, Baird got off the elevator, and Marcus noticed that he didn't seem as shaky as before, and that his eyes seemed a little brighter. Dom tried to hide his surprise at the sight of the blonde, with all the bruises covering his face.

They caught each others eyes as he walked deeper into the lobby, and Dom raised his hand in greeting. Baird nodded at him.

"Hey," he breathed as he approached the two of them, hands once again pocketed away.

"What's up, man?" Dom clapped him gently on the shoulder. The questioned sounded general enough not to be intrusive, but all three men knew what he meant by it.

Baird, in reply, gave a small shrug, and an encouraged nod. "They said he's doing better," he admitted slowly, his voice scared and hopeful all at once; he wanted to believe what was being told to him, but didn't want to get his hopes up either. "They said that, if he keeps improving, I'll probably be able to take him home in another two, three weeks."

Marcus blinked slowly in that surprised way of his, and Dom was silent for a second before actually smiling, as if he couldn't process the information right away.

"Baird, that's great." He paused, shrugged, and then flat out hugged Baird. "That is so great."

"Isn't it?" the blondes voice was subdued, but there was an actual smile playing at the corners of his lips. It was nervous and small and barely there, but it was a smile. The first one either Dom or Marcus had seen in quite some time.

It was good enough for them.

A few minutes later, Dom, Marcus and Baird were driving back to the apartment. Dom drove in his own truck, while the other two rode back in the car they had arrived in.

Baird seemed to be in higher spirits, if only a little, which prompted Marcus to try to get some conversation out of him; it seemed more natural for the blonde to be talking, and the former sergeant figured it'd be better then leaving him alone in his thoughts.

"You hear from Cole lately?" he spoke up as they glided down the highway, puddles of rain sloshing under the old tires of the truck. Lightning flashed overhead, and it was quickly followed by a mellow rumble of thunder.

Baird rubbed his eyes, settling into a more comfortable position on the seat. Everything was still sore from last night, and he was having trouble ignoring the throbbing pains that were pulsing through his head.

"He left a message a few days ago," he replied simply. "They won the game over at Chimley, so he'll be coming back in another week."

"Did you ever call him back?" Marcus asked again, awkwardly dividing his attention between his friend and the rain soaked road. His hands were tight on the steering wheel.

"Haven't gotten a chance." Baird went quiet after finishing, and it was obvious that he wasn't keen on speaking much right then; he instead leaned his elbow on the armrest, his head in his hand, and closed his eyes.

Marcus didn't pursue it. Today had been a long enough day, filled with a lot of mixed emotions. Thinking about it, he probably wouldn't have wanted to talk either, if he had been in Baird's shoes.

After a few minutes, he flicked the blinker on to get off the highway, and he watched through the rearview mirror as Dom did the same.

The neighborhood that housed their apartment wasn't anything special, but it was decent enough; the higher-ups who had been left after the war ended had made sure the soldiers who saved the world had gotten at least that much.

During his time as law enforcement, Marcus Fenix had seen far lousier parts of Hanover then where he was currently living, and he knew Dom would say the same thing; there were no gangs here, or prostitutes working every available corner, or random bouts of gunfire in the middle of the night. No, this neighborhood wasn't perfect, but it suited Marcus just fine.

Another fifteen minutes later, the old pickup lurched to a stop in the apartment's parking lot, and Marcus undid his seatbelt. It was really pouring, so much so that nothing was visible through the windshield as soon as the wipers stopped.

Wordlessly, the two of them got out of the car, and squinted as they were pelted with icy droplets of rain. Thunder clapped overhead as Dom slammed his own car door shut, and jogged over to the two of them. They walked to the doorway, where they were at least partially sheltered from the monsoon, but then Baird gestured over to his car.

"I think I'm gunna head back you guys." He had to raise his voice to be heard over the slapping of rain on the pavement.

"You sure?" Dom shouted back, his bearded face crinkling with concern. "Don't you think this shit is a little thick to drive in?"

It was true that the storm had only gotten worse since they'd arrived at the apartment, but Baird waved him off.

"I'll be fine," he called over his shoulder as his jogged over to his truck. It was unlocked, the keys hanging from the visor. "Call you later?" he added, unrolling his window so that they could hear as he settled down.

"Sure," Marcus replied, and as Baird started the car, he called to him again, and then tossed something through the window. The blonde caught it in rain-slicked palms before noticing it was the same orange bottle Marcus had mentioned earlier.

He nodded one more time to the two of them, and then rolled up his window before his whole car flooded.

As he pulled out of the driveway, the blonde tossed the pill bottle on the passenger seat, and tried not to think about it staring back at him, all the way home.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: One more quick thing, if you have any suggestions for Baird's baby's name, leave it in the comments, and if I use it, I'll mention you in the next chapter or so. Also, I just realized I haven't been jotting down the name of the author/s of the songs I have been using. So to remedy that…The three chapters that I missed…**

**Mad World: Gary Jules**

**Fix you: Coldplay**

**My Immortal: Evanescence**


	5. I Miss You

**A/N: Song: I Miss You, by Avril Lavigne**

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><p><em><strong>The day you slipped away<strong>_

_**Was the day I found it won't be the same.**_

How are you supposed to react when you realize that the best news of you life is also the worst news of your life? Are you meant to grin and bear it, and just hope everything will work itself out in the end? Or are you allowed to lose it, and burst into tears and scream and cry because you have absolutely no frigging idea of what to do.

As Baird drove through the torrential downpour on his way home, he didn't know what to think; he didn't have a clue. What Dom had said in the hospital lobby was stuck in his aching head like a bad song; grating on his nerves but impossible to forget all the same.

_That's great._

Optimistically speaking, his son—his little baby boy—might just have a chance at coming home soon. At growing up and living a life. It _was _great. More then that, it was beautiful, and amazing and—

Baird caught himself, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white, before his thoughts roamed over the word _perfect_. Because no. None of this was perfect. What it was was horrible and nightmare-ish and unthinkable.

It was terrifying.

How was he possibly going to do this on his own? How the _fuck _was he going to raise a _child_ when nowadays, he could barely keep track of himself. It was enough to make anyone's head spin.

Sam and he hadn't been planning for a baby. Samantha had always loved the idea of kids, and Baird found it frightening beyond belief, but neither of them gave it much thought because—or so they thought—pregnancy was out of the question to begin with.

The signs were there that she had wanted one; she was a women, to begin with, and nine times out of ten, maternal instincts just seem to take over after one settles down. Vividly, Baird remembered the somber glances she would always try to hide whenever they passed a couple with a newborn, or randomly bring up the prospect of adoption even, when they would lay in bed together at night.

Baird would hold her when she cried over the fact that she would never be a mother, and he would laugh with her whenever she joked about it. But as much as it hurt him to see his Samantha upset, Damon Baird never really did mind the realization that he probably would never have a child.

Not that he didn't _like _children, per se. No, his reasons had to due with a long list of other things, which consisted mostly of parental issues that he himself had had to endure as a child; A violent father. An alcoholic mother. Things that he had never really gotten over or resolved, and found lurking in the back of his head whenever the prospect of children of his own was brought up. Would he become abusive, like his father, or not give a shit, like his mom? Vaguely, he was aware of the answers to these questions—a man decided who he would become, after all—but even so, he could never find it in himself to _want _to be a dad.

But…that didn't matter for a whole lot right now, did it?

Baird nearly missed the turnoff for his home for how lost in thought he was, and he cursed under his breath fifteen minutes later when it came into rain-soaked view a few seconds too late. He cut the wheel violently, and just barely managed to make it onto the appropriate stretch of road. As the car lurched, the small bottle of pills clattered to the floor, but Baird didn't think twice about retrieving them. What was their point, anyway?

They had only been administered by some crazy head doctor just because the blonde had made a mistake at work. A violent, drastic, uncharacteristic mistake that Baird didn't care very much to recall.

He let one of his hands drop from the steering wheel, and sat back into his seat after the car had found its way onto a remote dirt road. It was surrounded on either side by old pine trees and thick shrubs and plant growth which almost succeeded in blocking out the rain. Almost.

Up the road, Baird knew his house would be coming into view any second, but found no comfort in the fact; for the past two weeks, the small cabin where he now lived by himself was acting more like hell, rather then home.

"Goddamnit," Baird spat through clenched teeth as he stumbled through the door, his booted feet tangling up into themselves as rain began soaking the mat on the floor. Using the small table situated next to him for leverage, the mechanic slipped his muddied boots off, and then shut the thick oak-wood door behind him. As the spatter of rain died behind it, he had to remind himself not to call out to Sam.

As per the usual, everything was quiet, and dark, and Baird had to stumble over to the large blue couch in front of him before he managed to flick a lamp on, which was enough to light most of the visible rooms.

He gave a quick glance in the direction of the kitchen, to the left, and then the messy bookshelf to the right. Everything was in place, untouched, but he wished it hadn't been; some sort of sign of life, even that of a stranger's, would've been more natural and comforting then the abnormal stillness that seemed to grip his house like death. It was like an abstract painting or picture; visually pleasing, but obviously not somewhere an actual human was meant to live.

Baird wasn't sure what time it was, but it was dark outside (whether from the storm or the actual time of day, he didn't know) and his bruised body felt more then ready for sleep. Sleep most likely wouldn't _come_, he already knew from experience, but lying down seemed as good a thing to do as any. He gave one quick glance at the closed bedroom door, down the hall, and then settled down on the couch.

He waited, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, and counting them. He shifted on his back, trying and failing to find a comfortable position that wouldn't aggravate his sore muscles. He emptied the contents of his cargo pants pockets onto the coffee table situated between him and the cold fireplace, listening to the keys jingling as they made contact.

He thought about losing her, over and over again; he thought about the hurt of the past, and the terrifying uncertainty of the future.

After a few hours passed like this, Baird finally convinced himself to take the sleeping pills he had hidden away in the bathroom closet a week and a half ago. Padding silently through the hall, he resignedly popped two in his mouth, and washed them down with a swig of water from the bathroom sink.

The dizziness that followed only a few minutes afterward was both unexpected and welcome. Baird felt his breathing calm as he curled back up on the couch, and watched numbly as the corners of his vision succumbed to a hazy black fog. He closed his eyes, and then lost consciousness.

He woke up two hours later, his shivering body coated in a thin sheen of sweat and a scream dying in his throat.

Jolting into an upright position, clutching the armrest of the couch with a vise-like grip, Baird could feel his heart racing, pounding in his chest as if he had run all of ten miles in a single go. The images from his nightmare were only then just starting to fade, and he found himself staring into his lap, or closing his eyes entirely, willing the awful memories to dissipate at least a little.

Thunder rumbled outside, and trees swayed in the powerful wind. Icy rain pelted the windows as if each droplet of water were attempting to break into the house.

It didn't seem like the storm would ever end.

After he caught his breath and steadied his hands, Baird hoisted himself off the couch, and found himself wandering the four walls of his house. (He'd already convinced himself of the fact that going back to sleep wouldn't be in his best interest.)

He opened the refrigerator idly, vaguely aware of the fact that he had no appetite, despite being unable to remember when he had eaten last. The light from inside lit up the kitchen, with its dandelion walls and wooden countertops. Pale blue plates sat motionless in the cabinet above the stove, and a pitcher of fake lilies had been arranged on the small breakfast table in the corner.

Baird let the fridge door swing shut on its hinges and listened as it locked itself with a damp sounding _swish_.

The hallway had a long gray carpet following it length-wise, and its wood walls were adorned with pictures; some of them were images of picturesque scenery that Sam had drawn and Baird had framed, while a few others were actual photos. The blonde glanced at them, but never long enough to distinguish which from which.

He stopped suddenly when he reached the last door at the end of the hall; it was open a crack, and Baird hesitated, but then pushed it the rest of the way open. Inside was a half-finished nursery.

His footsteps were soundless as he wandered inside, but still Baird crossed his arms over his chest uncomfortably, as if he felt he might be intruding. He stopped in the middle of the small room, and then did a slow three-sixty turn, examining the smallest details of its furnishings; a light-wood crib in the corner, and a mobile with birds hanging above it. The top half of the walls were painted a sunny yellow, while the bottom, separated by thick molding, was a clean white. There was a changing table adjacent the window, and a small chest of drawers, and a toy box that was empty.

Baird approached the crib, and then hesitantly placed a hand on the top bar.

A question was spinning through his tired mind, and even though he was desperately trying to shove it away, it persisted, begging to be asked out loud.

It made the man sick with guilt and betrayal, and he found his eyes welling with tears as he lowered himself to the floor and buried his face in his hands. There was an obvious answer to that awful, awful question, and that night, he cried miserably over it.

_Would he trade his son, if it meant having Samantha back?_

Yes.


End file.
